Remembering a Master Comic

Yury Nikulin had the power to bring together some disparate figures – in the Soviet Union and the United States.

Who knew that one of the world’s leading
military reporters – Michael Gordon of the New York Times –is a fan of the
Russian circus? Well, ok, maybe not a fan-fan, but unbeknownst to those who
follow New York Times history, the obituary he wrote about the death of the
famous Russian Clown Yuri Nikulin was the only one that ran in the Western
media, and probably the only arts tribute written by someone more known for
counting Kalashnikovs than belting out stories about Russia’s famed buffoonery.

The story goes like this: In 1997, while
millions of Russian mourned the loss of their most important cultural icon of
the 20th century, the rest of the world outside the former Soviet
Union knew little about it. Perhaps that’s because much of the reporting on
Russia focused on the ever-so-serious stories, rather than the funny ones; and
I suppose it’s hard to understand just how one nation (or former nation) could
canonize a clown, except he was the glue that kept the country together, kept
them laughing throughout all of their depressing decades, and was the close
advisor to leaders of Russian politicos, especially his good friend and
long-time mayor of Moscow Yury Luzhkov. (For more info on Nikulin, Google him,
or better yet, rent one of his videos.)

So anyway, the story of the obituary: I was
living across from the circus in Moscow at the time and one morning I woke up
and saw tanks in the streets. I thought there was another coup and the city was
being taken over. But no, it was just that Nikulin the clown had died, and in
anticipation of thousands of mourners who actually did start quickly arriving
upon learning of the news from local media, the circus officials called the
city, the city called the army, the army sent the tanks, who were there for
crowd control.

My news bureau, Newsweek, didn’t want a
story on this clown – who was truly a sort of Charlie Chaplin- meets-Robert
Kennedy in terms of the attention he commanded. They ran a photo with a
caption, but had nothing about what a great guy he was. So I ran to Michael’s
office, where he was writing some story on Chechyna or economics or wrapping up
some interview with a Very Important Person he had done the day before. In any
case, he was busy, he said, when I panted, out of breath, my explanation that
Nikulin was dead, and thousands of folks were in the streets, which were, by
the way, right outside his office and he
just had to write about it. Michael
lived across the street from me as well. “Michael,” you gotta see this.” He
was, he informed me, on deadline. I understand. A story about a dead clown is
not necessarily in the scope of practice of someone who traditionally writes
about guns and ammunition for a living. An hour later, I was back. Again my
pleas. I didn’t really know anyone else in the American press corps that well.
Again his, “I’m busy,” reply. I got it.
Deadline is deadline.

In American culture, the number three is
lucky. I think it has something to do with baseball, our national pastime, but
it’s a number that’s always worked for me. The third time I went back to bug
Michael, he was gone. “Where is he?” I asked his assistant. “He went to the
circus,” I was told. By ‘circus’ he
didn’t mean the one next door, where thousands of mourners filed through for
two days straight, as Nikulin lay in an open coffin, Russian style. He meant the head
administration of the Russian State Circus Company that heads up the 20,000
member arts organization. Apparently my pleas got to him. More likely, the
sight of the mourners had too.